Hiraeth
by eleanoralovesananias
Summary: Italy has been missing for months now. Romano, Germany, Hungary and Spain have been searching for him for seven months, while Prussia, Austria and France hold things together (barely). Why did Italy leave? Why has he cut himself off? When his friends finally find him, more questions are raised than answered. Contains OOC Italy, lots of fluff and angst, and transsexualism.
1. Chapter 1

"Have you seen this man?"

"Do you recognize this face?"

"Do you know anyone named Feliciano Vargas?"

"My brother's missing. Have you seen him?"

"My name's Ludwig. You wouldn't happen to have seen this man, would you?"

"If you know where he is, tell us! Or I'll hit you with my frying pan!"

"Contact us if you see him, _amigo."_

"Have you seen Feliciano?"

It had been months. Almost a year now, and no one had seen him. They'd scoured the Italian peninsula up and down, and yet, though his brother could feel that he hadn't crossed the border, they hadn't seen a sign of him. Romano would never admit it, but the others knew that he cried himself to sleep every night. Hungary cried openly sometimes, after a long day of futile searching. And as for Germany, he wished he could cry. It would be so much better than this endless choked feeling, than the little part of him that died every time someone looked at the photograph and shook their heads. They were all grateful for Spain, who kept them together even while his own grief threatened to overwhelm him.

Today marked the seven-month anniversary of the day Feliciano had disappeared, leaving behind only a note saying not to worry and everyone who loved him. It was a bitter feeling for the four. They sat together on a park bench, eating lunch. Spain had bought them all ice cream cones, "to keep us smiling," he said. Because he was Spain.

Hungary sat upright, staring at the ground, while Romano was between Spain and Germany, leaning on them both equally. Germany didn't mind, although it was still a little strange to have the Italian not screaming curses at him.

Finally the German sighed and unzipped his briefcase, pulling out his laptop. "We should call," he said.

The others nodded. Prussia and Austria had made them promise to call every day. The four nations gathered around as Germany pulled up Skype and called home.

"West! You called! Finally! It is unawesome to worry me this way, Bruder!" Prussia's face scolded. Germany resisted the urge to roll his eyes. He'd never known how much of a mother hen his brother could be. "You should have called hours ago, West! I thought something had happened to you and you'd left me to run your unawesome country forever!"

"Where's Austria?" Germany asked, ignoring Prussia's insult. He had volunteered to take care of things while Germany was gone, nobody had forced him.

Prussia huffed. "Austria! Get your unawesome self over here! West's calling!" he yelled over his shoulder. Austria appeared in an apron, holding a dish and washcloth; his hands were sudsy. The aristocratic nation opened his mouth to shout back, when he was bowled over by a very overwrought France. The emotional nation rushed towards them, purple robes flapping, and shoved Prussia out of the way, his face filling the whole screen. "_Mes amis!_ Did you find him? Where are you? Are you all alright? Oh, you have worried _moi!"_

Spain calmed France down, as Hungary and Romano were still staring dully into space, and Germany was too choked up to speak. There had been no progress, the Iberian nation explained, but they knew he was alive and that he was still in his own country, and that was good news.

Romano was barely listening. He stared at the sky, at the ground, anywhere but at the other nations. At his friends. He hated to admit it, but since his fratello disappeared, he had become close to all of them. He could even stand to be around the potato eaters.

But none of it mattered without Feliciano. The tingling, aching emptiness in his whole body had become unbearable. He and Feli were more than brothers, they were a singular country. They may have had two separate bodies, but their minds and souls were completely connected. To be away from each other was to be incomplete, and not to have some sort of physical contact with the other for too long was physically painful and messed with their minds. There were times when Romano could no longer focus his eyes, when his hands would shake uncontrollably, when he would lose the ability to speak. He knew his brother must be experiencing the same things, and the idea that Feliciano would cut himself off for so long, would endure the pain for this long, worried him more than he could express.

Romano lifted his eyes to the sky, blue and sunny as if mocking him. _Where are you, fratello?_


	2. Chapter 2

Felicia could feel the warm tingle of her brother's presence before she saw him.

She bit down on her lip, hard, tasting warm blood. The taste grounded her. She took a deep breath, and turned around, not looking directly at them. Gazing off into the distance as if she hadn't seen them, as if they were of no importance to her. Out of the corner of her eye, she observed.

Four of them stood there. Four people from her old life. Romano, standing as erect as he could, trying to hide the fact that he could no longer stand up fully straight. His lips were thin with perpetual worry and pain, and her heart fluttered with sympathy. Her whole body was screaming out at him, begging for the touch of her literal other half. But she gave no outward sign; her newfound self-discipline wouldn't allow it.

Next to him was Spain, his hand resting protectively on Romano's shoulder. His dark hair was dirty and for the first time she had ever seen, he wasn't smiling. He looked pensive, even sad.

Hungary was leaning on Germany, her green eyes dull, listlessly letting her frying pan hang by her side. There were tear tracks on her cheeks and a look of bitterness around her mouth. Germany was resting more on one foot than on the other; his usually impeccable hair was rumpled, and he seemed to be putting on a little weight. It hurt Felicia's sensitive heart to see her friends like this, and even more to know that it was because of her. She used her teeth to open up the wound on her bottom lip, sucking out the blood. The taste of blood always comforted her.

Spain sighed and started to pull the others onward. Romano suddenly stiffened, as the siblings got within ten feet of each other and a wonderful sensation ran through both their bodies. She moved towards him, almost involuntarily, before stopping herself.

Romano stared around, taking in all the faces, searching for his brother. He was here, he could feel it. The others leaned towards him, hope on their faces, light returning to their eyes. The Southern Italian walked a few paces, back and forth, then stopped in front of a young woman in an olive-green shirt and white skirt. There was a white cloth tied over her red hair. For some reason she seemed vaguely familiar.

"Excuse me," Romano said, "but you wouldn't happen to have seen this man, would you?" He held up a recent photograph of Feliciano, taken at a picnic just before he left. "His name's Feliciano."

The girl shook her head, and their hopes fell. "Sorry, I don't know any Veneziano."

Romano turned to go, feeling like he could cry. _False alarm._

_Wait... Veneziano? _

Romano slowly turned back around. "I called him Feliciano," he said quietly, his eyes dangerous. The girl's hazel eyes widened.

"I knew it!" Romano screamed. "I knew he was kidnapped!" The girl shook her head frantically and backed away, looking desperately for an escape route. Romano's eyes burned. "What have you done with him, you little -"

"Nothing! I don't know what you're talking about!" Her eyes were terrified. Romano grabbed her and snatched the cloth off her head. "So help me, I'm going to -"

Suddenly he stopped. He eyes traveled to the curl that had sprung up on "her" head, no longer hidden by the cloth. He stared at it, then at the fearful amber eyes which met his gaze. There were gasps from behind him as they recognized that face. Hungary was shocked. He was thinner and his hair was longer, and of course he was wearing girl's clothes, but she should have recognized him before; after all, it wasn't the first time she'd seen him in a dress.

"Fratello?" Romano asked in disbelief. They all gawked at her... him?

Felicia backed away. _No. No. No, please... __please, I don't want to go back... _It was only when Germany laid a gentle hand on her shoulder, concern on his face, that she realized she was speaking aloud. She squeaked and tried to pull away, but her old friend held her firm.

"Italien, what happened? Why did you leave us? Why won't you come home?" Germany asked, confused and hurt.

Felicia stared into his blue eyes; she had never seen him show this much emotion. She tore her gaze away and struggled in his grasp. "Let me go! Why can't you just leave me alone?!" she shouted. "Why can't you just leave me in peace?!"

The nations gaped. Only Romano had ever heard Italy raise his voice. Suddenly the older Italian couldn't help it. He reached out and grabbed his brother's hand. The skin-to-skin contact made them both gasp. Green and gold energy crackled between them, and warmth blossomed from where their hands were touching. Hungary and Spain jumped back, Germany yelling in pain as the energy left burns where it touched him. The German didn't let go of Italy's shoulder, even as the skin of his palm bubbled with the heat.

Romano grabbed Feliciano's other hand, reconnecting their minds. He (she?) tried to block him out, and he roughly pushed down the defenses. He wasn't going to be gentle, not now. Italy needed to know how much he had hurt everyone.

Felicia cried out as Romano's thoughts and emotions came flooding in, filling her with his worry and pain and guilt. She let her own emotions surge into her brother's mind, keeping them as vague as possible, trying to make him understand. Her confusion and fear, and anger, and sadness at having to leave them behind, and above all the sense of urgency. She had to leave, and quickly. She couldn't stop to say goodbye, she didn't even have time to make pasta before she left. It wasn't her choice.

Romano pressed against her mind, searching for details. She fought him off with a strength that clearly surprised him. One thing was clear to him, however: his brother identified as female. _Was that why you left?_ _I__ don't care if you're my fratello or sorella, idiot,_ he thought at her. _Just come the hell home._

Bitterly she refused, even as her whole soul reached for him. She held it back. She couldn't. It would just put them in danger. She pulled away from her brother, breaking the contact. Romano tried to grab her again.

Felicia punched him in the jaw, kicked Germany in between his legs, then delivered a follow-up roundhouse kick that landed the surprised German on the ground. She grabbed her makeshift bonnet out of Romano's hand, jumped over Germany's prone body, and disappeared down the street.

Lovino Vargas gasped and stumbled backwards, blood dripping from his jaw, shock on his face. Spain caught him, his eyes going back and forth between staring at his beloved Romano and staring after the younger Italian. Hungary dropped her frying pan and gaped. Germany stared up at the sky, his ankle twisted awkwardly, trying to comprehend what had just happened. In his confusion, the German's military training took over. "Retreat and regroup," he gasped. "We need a new plan."


	3. Chapter 3

Felicia locked the door behind her and leaned against it, sighing in relief. As the adrenaline faded, guilt and sadness took over. She wiped tears from her eyes. _Come on, Italy, pull it together,_ she scolded herself. _You don't have the time or the right to be a crybaby now. _

"Großer Bruder? Wo bin ich? Ich weiß nicht mehr, warum kann ich nicht erinnern? Ich schmerzen habe," a boy's voice said dazedly.

Felicia turned to see him stumbling down the hallway, his blue eyes clouded. He leaned heavily on the wall. His blond hair stood up in all directions like a crown of thorns. Italy caught him as he fainted again. She carried him bridal-style to the bedroom and laid him tenderly on the bed. After checking his bandages, she gave him a painkiller and a sedative, and tucked him in. She stared into his young face, holding back her tears. He hadn't aged a day, while she had gone through so much.

_~~meanwhile...~~_

Romano paced, Hungary fidgeted, Germany sat with his head in his hands, and Spain, for once, read the atmosphere well enough to know not to say anything encouraging. On the other side of the computer screen, Prussia, France and Austria wore identical looks of amazement. "He _punched _you?" Prussia asked for the millionth time.

Romano growled in irritation. "_Yes_, idiot, how many times do I have to say it? And not he, she."

"She? But that is just a disguise, _non?_" questioned France.

The volatile Italian sighed exasperatedly and dug his fingernails into his scalp. "Do you not have ears? I told you, my _fratello_ \- no, _sorella - _is apparently transgender. And no, that's not why she left. There's something more than that. She was hiding something."

This time it was Spain who spoke. "And that's something you haven't said yet, _mi tomate_. I know there's something you haven't told us; I'm not that stupid. We all saw... whatever it was that happened between you and Italy."

Romano gritted his teeth and let his hands drop to his sides. Leave it to Spain to ask. "We're both Italy."

There was a collective _here he goes again_ from the nations. They didn't get it. He took a breath and sat down. This was going to be a long explanation.

Translations:

Großer Bruder? Wo bin ich? Ich weiß nicht mehr, warum kann ich nicht erinnern? Ich schmerzen habe. = Big brother? Where am I? I can't remember, why can't I remember? I'm in pain.


	4. Chapter 4

"Ich will nicht, um zu essen," murmured the boy, trying weakly to push away the forkful of pasta that had his mouth under siege. He murmured a great many other things too, but they were mostly about darkness and fear and rivers made of serpents under a black sun, and Felicia had learned to ignore him when he talked like that.

"You need to eat. How else will you get better?" Italy cooed. "Open up, Holy Rome."

Her heart contracted with a familiar ache at the sound of that long-unused name. She blinked several times and pursed her lips. Without thinking, Italy touched his face.

She dropped the fork with a _clang_ that started out as if distant and, instead of dying away, grew louder and louder and changed to the sound of tortured screaming as it filled her mind with darkness that was darker than darkness. A scorched coppery smell flooded her nostrils, and his blood was boiling. No. No. _No._ _Help me. _He doubled over and turned to ash, his black cape and hat ripped from his shoulders by a howling blistering wind, white flakes of dissolving skin flying off into the endless burning dark.

Felicia tore her hand from his cheek and began to cry.

666

Later, Felicia sat on the stoop and watched the sun set, a cigarette in her hand. Her brother had convinced her to quit almost fifty years ago - a ghost of a smile came onto her face as she remembered the gesticulating and tomato sauce it had taken to get her to acquiesce - but right now she really needed a smoke. The Italian adjusted her bonnet, trying to to get used to the constant hot feeling where it touched her hair. Wearing hats was the worst thing about the transition, which had otherwise been spectacularly easy. She touched her cross pendant and thanked God for that. God probably could care less about her thanks, she thought. What she had done, what _he_ had done, was against everything God commanded. She blinked away tears at the thought of going to hell while all her friends went to heaven. _Well, at least I'll have France for company, _she thought sardonically, then scolded herself for thinking that way.

She sighed and took another pull on the cigarette, breathing out a cloud that was purple and gold against the setting sun. In a few hours, Holy Rome would wake, crying out fitfully in his tortured sickness, and in a few more she would have to wake up and go about the shopping, cooking and her temporary job as a street sweeper, all the while avoiding her old friends. Felicia lifted her head and silently watched the stars come out. She had nothing now to hang onto but herself.

Translations:

Ich will nicht, um zu essen. = I don't want to eat.


	5. Chapter 5

While Hungary and Germany discussed strategy - Spain was disturbed by the amount of military knowledge Hungary had amassed, and more so by the amount she was proposing be used in Italy's capture - Spain and Romano sat on the carpeted floor of the hotel room with their backs to the bed. The Spaniard was shirtless, much to the southern Italian's displeasure. Romano, for his part, was wearing a button-down dress shirt and similarly formal slacks. He hadn't even taken off his well-made shoes. Spain had never understood his friend's foppishness. But then, it was clear Romano felt the same about his own habit of throwing on whatever came to his hands, if he wore anything; depending on the temperature, the Iberian nation often considered clothes unnecessary. Romano, on the other hand, consistently wore long sleeves and long pants despite the warmth of his own territory.

Spain glanced at the the younger nation once again; his neck was starting to develop a crick. Lovino let an irritated hiss between his teeth, and Antonio quickly found an interesting spot on the wall.

"If you want to ask, fucking ask," Romano growled. "You don't have to keep staring at me like I'm some kind of freak."

Any other man would have blushed, but Spain was shameless. He smiled in gratitude and and leaned towards the Italian. Romano moved almost imperceptibly backwards.

"So how does it work?" Spain asked enthusiastically. "Are you two telepathic? Were you like this when you were kids or did it happen after unification? How come you can't find him, I mean her, if you're linked like that? What's wrong, Lovi?"

Romano was doubled over, gasping. Hungary and Germany stopped to stare at him, concern on their faces. Germany walked over and touched his back - only to pull his hand away with a yell when a spark of golden energy nearly threw him across the room. The German staggered backwards and caught his balance to see Hungary already kneeling beside the Italian, trying to get him upright.

"SHUT UP!" shouted Romano.

Everyone stopped. They waited with bated breath as the Southern Italian squeezed his eyes shut, trying to establish a connection. _Darkness. Fire. Ash. No. Help me. _Suddenly the flow of disturbing images stopped, and Romano almost caught hold of his sister's mind before the link broke.

* * *

Spain shook his friend's limp body. Again, and again, and again. Lovino wasn't moving. His skin was threaded through with golden light, making his skin look worryingly translucent. Antonio Fernando-Carriedaz, the blasé, the cheerful, was holding the man he raised without breathing, his skin pale and glowing. Hungary knelt beside them, Germany stood behind her. All three had minds full of one thought.

_Have we lost them both?_


	6. Chapter 6

Romano gasped, breath returning to his suffocating, unconscious body with a rush of adrenaline. His green eyes flew open to see Spain's round, tear-dripping face above him. The images remained in his mind, distant now but clear and terrifying. These could not be from his sister's mind. It had been seven months, yes, but a human being could not change that much in seven months. This person who had been in his mind was not...

_Not human_, whispered a voice in his mind. He whimpered in fear and turned over, buried his head in Spain's knee, and began to cry.

The sound of soft sobbing echoed from below him. Spain felt breath return to his body. _He's alive. Thank God, he's alive. _Spain looked up and met Hungary's eyes. Slowly, he smiled.

Germany gingerly patted Romano on the back. His palm throbbed, and he inhaled sharply in pain. Quickly the German nation retreated to the corner of the hotel room so as not to interrupt the others' moment, and looked at his hand for the first time since it had been burned by Felicia's shoulder. He shuddered. The burn was much worse than he had realized: third or fourth degree by the look of it. The skin was blackened, threads of green and gold lingering subcutaneously. Small curlicues of scorched epidermis stood up like tiny ocean waves from his ruined palm. The nation carefully touched the skin - and involuntarily choked. Images blurred before him. They were weak and faded, the lines barely discernible as if badly developed, but the content of them alarmed him. _A young boy, blond and clad in black, revolving in an endless void. The inferno filled his vision and from far below him, the screams of Dis echoed through time and space. _Germany stumbled backwards, and his trembling hands found the wall. He leaned there for a moment, trying to breathe. _So that's what Romano saw, _her thought. _No wonder he's crying_.


	7. Chapter 7

The next morning, after some well-deserved rest (during which Spain insisted on sleeping with Romano, much to the Italian's chagrin, Germany stayed as far away from the resulting quarrel as possible, and Hungary watched the proceedings with a wry eye and a wish that she had brought her special camera) the four nations dressed for another day of searching, this time with some idea of where to go. Spain slung on a T-shirt and a pair of bright yellow shorts which he refused to believe were tacky. Romano wore his collared shirt and slacks, though he exchanged his usual expensive loafers for expensive running shoes, aware that he might need them. Hungary came out of the bathroom wearing a neat blue frock. Altogether, they were ready to find their friend.

With their new picture, the searchers had far more luck than with the old one. Local residents welcomed them in as soon as they heard the words "friends of Felicia's." Resturant owners told them rueful stories about the amount of pasta it took to keep the "poor young _bella_" fed. Even homeless people's eyes lit up when they saw the drawing of the young woman who had helped them so much. It seemed that Italy's natural kindness had blossomed here as well as it had at home. Each story made Spain smile and Hungary get misty-eyed. Romano just stared at everyone they met, everyone who smiled to think of his wonderful sister. Surely Italy was just the same. No monster could have made these people smile the way they did. So Italy couldn't be... changed. She couldn't be. Germany felt much the same, in between struggling blurs of thoughts that were not his own and seared in through the skin of his palm.

An overweight, middle-aged woman stood bent, sweeping the street. She was tanned and wrinkled as a prune, with striking features: these included a hook nose that reminded Romano uncomfortably of Savonarola, stark black eyes with fake lashes, stout lips, and hands which, despite their long, elegant fingers, were the size of trout. Her black hair was short and curly beyond measure, though unwashed and badly cut. She wore a bright blue blouse and clashing black skirt, strangely set off with at least twenty small white bows clipped in her hair.

Spain approached her with open palms and his usual disarming smile. The other three hung back, watching: they had learned that between a muscular, intimidating German in a military uniform, a short, foul-mouthed, bad-tempered Southerner who perpetually looked like he needed a cup of coffee, a young woman with a heavy accent who toted a frying pan and seemed compelled to threaten people with it, and a charming young Spaniard with an open manner and a (small) amount of tact, the last one was the diplomat of choice.

"Hola," smiled Spain. "Tú parece muy hermosa a hoy, señora." Winces from behind him. A _very _small amount of tact.

But the woman smiled toothlessly and responded in impeccable Spanish, "Gracias, pero soy hermosa no más. ¿Qué es tu necesidad?"

Spain smiled, oblivious to the tactful thing to say here, and pulled out the sketch Romano had done of Felicia's thin, weary face and soft auburn hair. Her amber eyes looked out with pensive and slightly preoccupied brooding. Romano had spent a few hours in the evening releasing his feelings into the scrap of paper, and it looked as lifelike as Felicia herself. The Spaniard held it out to the woman. "We're her friends. Someone told us you might be able to tell us where to find her."

The woman's eyes lit up. "Oh, _sí!" _she half-gasped, half-cackled. "Felicia Alamanni." (Romano spewed tomato sauce at the surname, but no one paid attention.) "The neighbors say she's a refugee," she gossiped. "God knows _I _don't know. Nobody knows much about her. Just shows up one day, no papers, no place to live, no money, toting a little _bambino _hardly old enough to walk -"

"Sorry, what?" interrupted Germany. "A little what?" He smiled apologetically, hoping his German accent made his problem clear.

"A kid," translated Romano, his brow furrowed. "Why the hell would she have a kid with her?"

The woman shrugged. "Like I said, no one knows. She's all very mysterious, _sí?_. Won't take that ridiculous scrap off her head -" Hungary stifled a giggle, since the woman's own array was none too ubiquitous - "and insists on taking the graveyard shift. Anyway, I give her a job, and she looks like a mountain's been taken off her shoulders. Twenty years younger she gets, I swear to you. And then she -"

"Not to interrupt," Germany interrupted, since Spain seemed content to listen to the latest gossip until the nations died of old age, "but could you tell us where we could find her?" He gestured at Romano. "He's her brother. We're very worried about her."

The woman's jet-black eyes bugged. The false lashes over her right eye fluttered to the street like an underfed moth, leaving her face with a slightly lopsided look. "You're her _familia?" _She looked at Romano, then Spain, and nodded, frowned slightly when her eyes swept over Hungary - and broke into a wide, toothless grin when she saw Germany. "Well, well, well!" she giggled. "I can see the resemblance. No question who _you_ are."

There were frowns of confusion. "Sorry, resemblance?" Germany questioned. "Ita- Felicia and I look nothing alike."

The woman giggled again and reached up to pinch his cheek purple, the white bows in her hair bobbing. "I mean your little boy, _tonto! _He takes after you, you know."

Germany gaped at her.

"Oh, you poor _caro_," she pitied when she saw his expression. "Ran off with the little one, did she? Now, don't you take it personally. The young thing was probably at her wits' end, poor _querida._"

Germany didn't know whether he was more flabbergasted by what she was implying, or the woman's habit of switching at random between Spanish and Italian, neither of which language he could follow very well. It seemed impossible that she was actually suggesting that little boy was... his? The fact also didn't help that Romano's face was slowly metamorphosing into an expression the German had once been very familiar with, but had assumed they were past that point. The Southern Italian looked like an overripe grape, and the other nation was suddenly glad for Spain and Hungary's presence between them.

"No - no, you don't - we're not - could you just give us an address?" Ludwig asked desperately. The woman, though chuckling knowingly, wrote it down for them on a baby blue scalloped Post-It she kept in her shirt pocket. The four nations hurried on, one furious, one oblivious, one mortified, and one very much amused.

Italy's new home was a small brick apartment building stuffed at the back of a side street. Lovino had to step carefully to keep his nice shoes clean, and the searchers noticed at least one rat, but the Italian flag was flying from one open window, jazz played from a radio perched atop another, and the aroma of baking bread filled the otherwise slightly stale air. The four stood staring up at it, so many questions in their heads. Was this really where Italy lived? Why here? Who was the little boy they had heard about? Was he really related to Germany? How? And above all: why had their innocent, ever-smiling Italian chosen to leave them for this, and what was she hiding?


	8. Chapter 8

Spain leaned over to Hungary and asked her a question. She stifled a giggle and began explaining to him what the old woman had been implying.

Romano saw Spain and Hungary locked in conversation and took his chance, grabbing Germany by the collar and opening his mouth to give the German a piece of his mind.

Germany raised his hands in surrender. "I have no idea what she was talking about, _ja?_ I swear there's nothing between me and your bro- sister that you don't know about! Even if there had been, I would have told you when she disappeared! _Ow!_"

Hungary gasped with indignation as the German staggered backwards, holding his bloody nose, while Romano flew at him, screaming curses. "_Lovino Romano Vargas_!" she shouted, grabbing his arm. "I thought we were past this!"

"It's his fucking fault!" screamed Romano. He turned on Germany, who cowered. "It's your fault, you _bastardo_! It's your fault she left! It's your fault -"

Lovino broke down into tears.

* * *

Short chapter, I know, but this felt like a good place to end it. Also I've got plans today, and didn't want to leave you guys without an update! Give me your thoughts - what do you think happened to Holy Rome? What's going to happen next? (Seriously, I need ideas.) Thanks so much to everybody who's reviewed; you guys are great. Until next time!


	9. Chapter 9

Plans were cancelled. So you get two chapters in one day! Lucky you! Aaaand I get to spend another day doing nothing. Lucky me.

* * *

Spain and Hungary tried to comfort Romano, while Germany stood only half-conscious, swaying slightly. For all his bluster, Romano blamed himself. He was desperately worried about his sister, afraid that the old woman's implications were true, afraid that she had gotten into deep trouble and hadn't felt that she could trust him. And more than that, though he tried to block it out of his mind, knowing it was a selfish thought, he was worried about himself. Without his other half, what would happen to him? And if she came back, he'd just be relegated back to "Italy's brother." He couldn't think. It _hurt. _Everything _hurt._ All this went through Germany's mind, and he wondered vaguely how he'd gotten so perceptive.

With a chill, he realized he was reading Romano's mind.

Germany cautiously returned his attention to the now horribly disfigured skin of his palm, first making sure his companions were fully focused on Romano. Previously, threads of green and gold had gleamed from just under the epidermis. Now the green was more pronounced, though dark. With a flash of understanding, he recognized the green as Lovino's thoughts, and the gold as Felicia's. But the state of his skin worried him. The threads were spreading, crawling up over the heels of his hand and dissolving into the blood vessels of his wrist.

"Hey potato bastard?" mumbled Romano. Germany quickly hid his hand behind his back and turned to face the shorter man. Lovino was pale and looked exhausted and just a little heartbroken. Tear tracks were visible on his skin, and the German saw for the first time that he hadn't washed his face in _39 days._ The thought presented itself to him, fresh from his companion's mind. Germany tried not to shiver.

"I'm sorry I yelled at you," the Italian forced out, refusing to look at him. "I know it wasn't your fault. I just..." his voice broke, and he inhaled sharply, composing himself. _Don't let them see you upset. _(Germany now felt very uncomfortable, and began trying to block out the unwanted telepathy.) "I just want her back."

Germany nodded. "We all do."


	10. Chapter 10

A third chapter in one day? Wow, that must be a record! Let this make up for any past and/or future waits. And this one actually has some substance to it...

* * *

A lanky and very high college student gave them Felicia's apartment number, after making the mistake of flirting with Hungary and nearly getting his brains knocked out. The four searchers stood before an unexceptional oak door with a brass knob. A hurriedly written sign taped over the knocker said: "Sick child. Please be quiet."

Brows wrinkled. Romano sent a suspicious glare Germany's way, but it was no longer serious. Hungary was now very worried. "A sick child," she murmured. The Hungarian woman glanced at Romano. "You haven't seen anything?"

Romano shook his head grimly. "Nothing. Nothing at _all._"

Germany considered sharing, but decided against it. He would, later. When his friend was safe. For now, they needed to focus on her. After all, whatever was happening to him couldn't be dangerous. Right?

* * *

Felicia left the small bedroom, heading towards the kitchen. Holy Rome opened his eyes a crack. A film rested over them, of fog and fire and hazy visions. He opened them much wider, and blinked hard. The visions receded to his peripheral vision, as did the screams that had been ringing in his ears ever since - _No. Don't think about it._

Holy Rome managed to pull himself upright. He felt dizzy and sick. It was hard for him to stand the light; it hurt his eyes and burned his sensitive, feverish skin horribly. He couldn't get Italia to turn it off, but he also couldn't tell if his words were effectively traveling the distance from his lungs to his mouth, so that wasn't her fault. He felt cold, so cold, and clammy, and dead. Only his blood was warm, and it was on fire. But he couldn't stay. He couldn't let his love keep him here, not when his presence put her in so much danger.

His room was tiny but lavishly furnished, shelves filled with rag dolls and an overstuffed bergeré crammed into the corner in an effort to make it more homelike. Italia's hard work meant a lot to him, more than he could express in his current state. But she shouldn't be doing this. Italia of all women shouldn't be harboring a fugitive from hunters so gruesome and a hunt so tireless. He could die again, if only he knew she was safe. He could endure all of Hell's tortures, if only he knew for sure that his forever love was secure in the warm and beautiful land of the living.

Holy Rome managed to stumble out of the room, feeling his way through the grey clammy mist that blanketed his field of vision. The whole world smelled like a graveyard. He felt his way along walls that, he could barely see, were wallpapered with faded burgundy patterns and wide swaths of peeling plaster baring themselves to the eye, but to him felt like the painfully cold and sometimes slimy walls of a pitch-black cavern.

The hallway opened up into the living room, which the fugitive knew contained the door. He left the safety of the wall and staggered blindly out into darkness. His vision was rapidly failing, his ears filled once more with the sound of tortured screams, the air stank of death, and the thick metallic taste of blood overwhelmed his palate. With distress, he knew that he wasn't going to make it to the door this time.

Until the echoing crack of the door being kicked in nearly bowled him over.


	11. Chapter 11

Felicia heard the crash from the kitchen.

Boiling water splashed everywhere, burning her back, but she took no notice. The nation hurled herself in front of Holy Rome, brandishing a spatula and ready to protect him from whatever Devil wanted her love now. Cheeks flushed with terror and rage, "De locus höc decedete, larvae!" she shouted, reverting to the Latin of her childhood in her agitation.

It took the flustered Italian woman a few moments to realize who was standing in front of her. The spatula slipped from her sweaty hands. Total shock encompassed her pale thin face. After a few moments, she began to cry in bewilderment. "How... how did you find me?"

Holy Rome tried to push past her, only to stumble and fall to his knees, where he began patting the carpet as if looking for something lost. Italy hoisted him to his feet and gave him an uncustomary shove in the direction of his bedroom. "Go to your room," she rasped. "Let me handle this." From the way she held the spatula she had picked up from the floor, the meaning of the word "handle" was undefined and highly worrying.

"No." Holy Rome croaked out the word, his tongue thick and fuzzy in his mouth. He shook his head to articulate his point, in case his voice wasn't working again.

Italy gaped at him. "I said go to your room! Go back to sleep. You need to get better!"

"No," he implored. "I need to _rest. _I'm so tired. Just _let me go._"

Felicia grabbed the boy as he struggle to make his way past her, grasped him by the shoulders, and shook him hard. "No! You are not going anywhere! You are not leaving me again. You will never leave me again!" She cried harder than she thought she could. Tears jumped out her eyes like little silver fish. "Never! _Never!_"

The doorstep creaked, and Italy whirled around and smacked the nearest person, who happened to be Hungary, across the face with the spatula. Holy Rome seized his chance to run blindly towards the faint draft he took to be the open door.

Four faces stared down at the the boy, and two of them grew white. Hungary's hand moved slowly to Spain's arm and clutched it tightly. Spain's jaw was slack and his face very white. "Oh my God," whispered Hungary. Spain was speechless. Romano and Germany were confused.

Italy pushed Holy Rome behind her, brandishing the spatula as if it would defend her against a frying pan and at least one gun. Her eyes were wild. "You're not-a taking him-a away from-a me, you-a hear me? He's-a _never _leaving-a me _again!"_

Romano looked, bewildered, from Hungary's horror to Spain's shock, to Germany's confusion. "What the hell is going on?" he demanded. "Who the hell is that kid?"

Hungary swallowed. "That," she answered, "is Holy Rome."


	12. Chapter 12

**UPDATE**

**Hey, guys. I'm so glad y'all like/love/tolerate this story; I was not expecting it to become so popular. But, well, I'm going on a trip in a few days, and I won't be back for a whole month. Even when I get back, I'll probably be exhausted, so it might be a week or two after that before I start updating again. And then school starts, so updates will be less frequent than they have been. But don't worry - I'm not dropping anything, I just want you guys to be prepared for long waits. Thank you so much for your support, and your reviews! Loving the reviews!**

**Hasta la pasta, **

**eleanoralovesananias**


	13. Chapter 13

Felicia helplessly led her old friends into the hastily cobbled together living room for a cup of coffee. They sat on donated armchairs and folding stools and footstools and the floor, drinking out of cheap paper cups and one cracked mug for Germany (which drew only one halfhearted jealous glance from Romano). Holy Rome was tucked up against his will in a now locked room upstairs.

Faces were still full of shock, now including Romano - Germany could feel in blurry blackness-tinged smears of emotion searing in through his palm that "Holy Rome" was someone important from Italy's past, but he knew not who or how. He was vaguely interested in learning what was going on. Italy had been gone for a while, hadn't she? He stared at his coffee and silently willed it to have far more caffeine. It sat there in his hands, silently laughing at him.

Felicia failed to meet any of her friends' eyes. She could feel her brother straining to make eye contact with her bowed head, but she did not oblige him. The thousand-year-old personification of the Venetian people was intelligent enough to know it was over. _It's over. _She had tried so hard to keep her lover safe, to extend on into infinity something that should have ended a long time ago. It was perverse, and it was sinful, but she didn't want to let him go again. She couldn't let him go again. Tears prickled her lashes.

Romano could feel her echoing words: _It's over. _But what really bothered him (or so he told himself) was what she had shouted in Latin. _De locus höc decedete, larvae! _Surely she had meant _larvae _figuratively. Surely she couldn't mean _actual _demons. But then, where had Holy Rome returned from? He was dead, had been dead for hundreds of years. Where could he have been that he could have returned from? Surely she had meant _larvae _figuratively?

Spain met Hungary's eyes, which were frosted with tears, for a brief moment before returning his gaze to his coffee. It was good coffee, even a bit strong. He stared at Felicia. Her soft auburn hair was in two long braids down her slumped back, but they looked to have been braided in a hurry, the tie at the end only halfway done. He wondered why she had been in such a hurry, and it suddenly occurred to him that everything, the whole house, Felicia's whole manner, seemed hurried and half-done. The Spaniard tried his hardest to piece the clues together, but his mind was just not fine-tuned enough for that sort of thing.

Hungary's mind was on her former young charge, the blond boy she had thought was gone forever. How could it be that he was here, alive and well? Well, perhaps not well. She saw in front of her tearstained eyes his white, drawn face, his shaking limbs and dark, terrified eyes. The woman glanced at her friend. _What have you done? _She couldn't help but be a little angry. _What has the stupid bo-_ _girl gone and done? _But she relented. Obviously Italy was in a lot of distress. She glanced up at the the girl, her eyes softer now. The woman remembered the little ones she had raised, all those years ago. She felt tears sting her tear ducts. _One all grown up, and one..._

Suddenly there was a horrible beating on the door.

A primal horror filled all five of the occupants of the room, including the still-exhausted Germany. Something about the rhythm and tone of the pounding on the thick oak door gave rise to the hairs on five necks. It was as if the hands pounding rhythmically in an alien - yet terribly familiar in some nightmarish pseudomemory - cadence were somehow malformed to human sensibilities. It was difficult to describe, but it had everyone in the close apartment on their feet. "No," whispered Italy. "Please no. Please - please, just go away. JUST GO AWAY!" she screamed at the closed door.

The five-inches-thick, solid paneled oak door shattered inward, sending the nations diving for cover, and there, in the doorway, they got their first good look at the Furies of Hell.

* * *

**So! Hey, guys! A nearly two-month long wait, what on earth do you mean? *nervous giggle* But yeah, here I am. Life kinda sucks right now, so the frequency of updates depends on whether I choose to actually solve my problems or escape into the world of fandoms like I usually do. **

**Anyways, here's a nice, long chapter for you. I'm curious: who are you most worried about? Italy, because she's fighting off the demons? Holy Rome, because he's so sick? Romano, who has some issues? Germany, with his rapidly worsening problem? Or someone else? Tell me in the reviews.**

**Have a wonderful weekend, and I hope to get the next chapter up soon! Thank you all for reading!**


	14. Chapter 14

**I just realized, while updating my Doctor Who stories, that I hadn't updated this one in almost five months. So here you go, and there's more on the way. I am SO sorry about the wait. Stay with me, please! **

* * *

A horrible, primal fear seized all occupants of the cramped apartment. Germany instinctively reached for his gun, and swore as quietly as possible when he remembered he had left it in the hotel room. What had he been thinking?

The German knew the answer to that. He hadn't been thinking at all. He hadn't had a clear thought since he'd touched Italy's shoulder. It was only sheer adrenaline that was allowing him any measure of cognitive function now. He needed to tell someone what was wrong with him, and quickly, before he lapsed back into the barely-awake trance he had been in for the past few days.

Unfortunately, there were demons at the door, and they were angry. Now was not exactly the time. Still, he had to at least try to get his message across. The German dropped to his knees in the simple but plush grey carpet and pressed his palms into the same, intending to crawl stealthily over to Hungary and try to warn her. He noticed that its texture could be felt in a sort of gradient that ran from the back of the room, where the grey carpet merged into the simple wood paneling of the hallway that led to the bedrooms. In the back of the room, furthest from the door, the carpet was soft and slightly warm to the touch; one's hand sunk a little into it. But as he moved his hand over towards the door, it grew steadily colder to the touch until it was frigid, and he saw that as the carpet went on, a thin layer of frost formed in its fissures. He moved his hand slowly back and forth across the carpet, fascinated by its touch, and forgot that he was ever in danger.

* * *

The demon roared, a flaming whip crackling terribly in the elongated, six-jointed claws of its left "hand."

Its body was a mottled green-purple-brown, except on its elbows, knees, spine and feet, where blackened shells rested, their edges spiked.

Its arms were spiderlike and had four elbows, its seventeen ribs poking out of its mummified chest like horns.

Its hips were circular and it stood in a primitive squat, six hairy spiderlike legs scuttling along the floor, each one ending in a six-toed and scaly grotesque parody of a human foot.

It had three yellow, bloodstained horns like a triceratops, gills in its throat and just below its ears that flapped and wavered, taking in as much carbon dioxide and sulfur as possible from the oxygen-rich above-world air.

It was bald except for its horns, and its face, which was twice the size of a human's face, was flat.

Its eyes were enormous and buggy, milky white without iris or pupil except for the dull purple veins that crisscrossed them.

It had no nose and its mouth was full of jagged shark teeth, aside from four enormous fangs protruding from its upper lip, each one the size of a horse needle.

But the most horrible thing about it was that its papery skin rippled and writhed of its own accord, constantly slithering along its body like a moveable shell.

It was coming towards them.

When Felicia and Lovino were children, Rome used to tell them stories in which things like this would happen. But in those stories, Just when all seemed lost, a hero would always swoop in and save the day. Romano couldn't help but remember those stories as his life flashed before his eyes. He prayed helplessly to heaven for a deus ex machina.

Prussia burst in.


	15. Chapter 15

**Hey, I just wanted to tell you that I'm dedicating this chapter to my man ****_pastaaddict_. You've stuck with me, reviewed (I believe) every chapter, and though your reviews are short, they usually show the exact reaction I wanted to elicit. You've kept me writing this story, and when I realized I'd taken so long, my immediate thought was to update quickly so as not to lose you. You're awesome. Just wanted to let you know that.**

* * *

"IN THE NAME OF THE HOLY TEUTONIC ORDER AND THE LORD IT WAS CREATED TO SERVE, GET THEE HENCE!"

Prussia knew how to handle demons.

He grabbed hold of two of the seventeen ribs poking out from the demon's chest and forced them apart, cracking and ripping the demon's chest. Black blood dripped from the wound he was creating and the demon roared, cracking its whip, but its arms were not made to reach in towards itself, and so Prussia was standing in the one safe place around a demon: right up next to it.

The former nation kept forcing the ribs apart until the skin between them buckled and ripped open to reveal a tiny, shrivelled, dull purple heart with black hair growing on its slick, bloody surface.

Prussia produced a flask of holy water from the pouch on his belt and doused the demon's heart in it.

A ghastly scream erupted from the demon's mutated throat, wavering through its gills, which created an echo that sounded like all of Hell screaming. Upstairs, Holy Rome screamed out loud in terror and began beating his head against his pillow. The demon began to shake and tremble, still screaming. Then it began to dissolve, starting at the tips of its horns and falling down around its shoulders, hips, claws - then it was all just sand, slipping through the carpet and down into the soil. The carpet lost its coat of frost and warmed back up to normal temperatures, and the fear faded from the house.

Prussia gingerly picked up the flaming whip which had been left behind and doused it too, extinguishing it.

* * *

Five faces stared back at Prussia's grinning one, disbelief written on all five. Spain gaped, used to Prussia as a lazy freeloader who couldn't be bothered to fight in a bar, much less against demons. Romano remembered all the times he'd been impossibly rude to the potato eater and shivered, thanking God that Prussia was too lazy to be offended. Germany tried to remember the last time he'd seen his brother angry enough to fight; it had been a long time, but he remembered being terrified. Italy couldn't believe her eyes; she'd been trying to find a weakness for months, and it had never occurred to her to ask the resident Teutonic Knight.

Hungary was grudgingly impressed.

Just then, Austria caught up with Prussia. He stumbled to a stop and leaned against the doorframe, puffing. "You run..." he gasped, "...extremely fast... when you want to."

"You catch your breath," Prussia tossed back over his shoulder. "I've taken care of everything without your help, thank you very much."

Austria glared at him, still too out of breath to make a snotty remark.

"How did you do that?" Romano demanded.

Prussia grinned wider. "Well, I was a Teutonic Knight. I know how to handle demons." He looked distrustfully at the remains of the sand. "That one was particularly nasty."

"Is it dead?" asked Spain shakily.

Prussia considered the question. "Technically it was already dead," he answered. "I just sent it back to Hell." He glanced at the sandy floor next to his boot. "It'll be back," he warned.

Prussia's boots clicked over to where Felicia was now standing in front of the couch, tense, pale, ready to run. He looked sternly down at her. "The question is," he continued, "what do you have in your house that they want so badly? You're the owner of the house, right?"

Felicia's smile was bitter. "You don't recognize me?"

Both Prussia and Austria stared hard at the girl. The recognition was slow, then all at once.

"ITALY?" cried Austria. "You're alive!"

"Feliciano?" said Prussia stupidly.

Italy looked down and clenched her teeth. "It's Felicia," she answered Prussia.

Austria paid her no heed. "What are you doing here?!" he half-shouted. "Do you have any idea how worried we've been?! You've been gone for MONTHS! Months, Italy! No explantation, no phone call, just a note on the back of a grocery list with less than a sentence on it! 'Be fine don't worry'? Is that what you think we deserve? Is that what your brother deserves? You just left, just abandoned us all, and for this? A run-down little apartment, no friends, no family? Are we worth that little to you?!" the aristocratic nation screamed at her, unable to hold back his grief any longer. "I THOUGHT YOU WERE DEAD!"

He stopped speaking, his face stricken. "I thought you were dead," he repeated, and a loud gulp hid the beginnings of a sob. He didn't cry, but he looked like he was going to.

His words echoed all of their thoughts, but there was amazement as no one had expected that from Austria. Austria was the nation who kept his cool, who stayed logical, unemotional and slightly disdainful when even Germany lost it. As much as many of them hated his aristocratic primness, he had always been a person you could count on, if you could get him to accept you. He was the last person any of them expected to snap under pressure, Italy especially.

Her response was quiet, but it carried well in the mostly bare room. "I didn't have any other choice."

"That's ridiculous," Prussia stated. "You could have come to us."

She avoided their eyes. They were wrong, but they would never believe it without seeing the truth, and she was not going to give up her love. Not without a fight, anyway. She had the awful feeling that the end was in sight.


	16. Chapter 16

"Would you like a coffee?" Italy asked wearily.

Prussia gaped at her incredulously and not a bit angrily. "Excuse me? Did you just offer us coffee? Do you really think now is the time for -"

"Actually, if you wouldn't mind, a coffee would be very nice at the moment," replied Austria, wiping his sweating forehead with a lace handkerchief.

Prussia turned to look at him.

Austria sighed. "I don't know what's going on," he told Felicia quietly. "I don't know why you left, or why you're here, or why there were _demons _after you. Yet I've never liked people who rush into situations without properly assessing them first," he sniffed with a touch of his characteristic primness. "And I've seen well enough that they simply make things worse. So yes, I would like a coffee, please, and perhaps a seat, and we can sit down and discuss _what exactly _is going _on here._"

With his final words, he fixed Felicia with a masterful look that she, like most of them, knew only too well. She blinked and and pressed her lips resolutely together, her only outward sign of reaction to that look. Austria showed visible surprise at this change, and looked over her a second time, curiously scrutinizing her for clues about the truth.

Felicia turned her back, cutting off his inspection. They would find out the truth on her terms, and no way else. She marched to the kitchen and began grinding the coffee beans, shutting the doors tightly behind her. As soon as she heard the others hear the door shut, relax, and begin to whisper to each other, she opened them a crack. She listened carefully as she made the coffee, ready to burst in at any moment to stop them.

Prussia turned instantly to Germany. "What's going on, little Bruder?" he demanded. "Why is he here, why is he dressing like that, why did he leave, and how did you find him?"

Germany swayed, not hearing him, barely awake, as he rubbed his palm distractedly on his pants. His eyes stared vaguely ahead, hardly responsive.

Prussia tapped him on the shoulder. "Bruder, are you listening? It is unawesome to ignore me, _ja__?_"

Germay reacted sluggishly to the touch and turned his head, searching for the source of the touch with hazy eyes. He looked perplexed, like he was sincerely worried about something but couldn't remember what or why. He looked into Prussia's eyes and wrinkled his brow, trying to focus, to remember who this person was. Potato eater... no, that wasn't it... Germany's brother... was that it? Was this his brother? Or... was it Germany's brother? He was Germany, wasn't he? Ludwig? Something like that? Or - wait - was his name... Holy something? Some kind of empire? Or was it Lovino? He seemed to have several conflicting identities in his head. He was a German named Ludwig, with three dogs and an older brother, but he was also an Italian named Lovino, who was angry and worried about a younger sister, and he was also that young woman, who was struggling to maintain a facade of strength against the overwhelming desire to surrender, and he was also a child named... Holy something... who only wanted to rest and give up the love of his life to a person named Germany... but wait, was he that person? He didn't understand. His whole arm burned as if feverish, swollen and heavy with someone else's thoughts. He looked at it; it was thinly glowing gold and green, and his shoulder ached as tendrils of dim color pulled themselves further into his body.

Prussia waved his hand in front of his brother's face. "Bruder. Bruder?" The other four occupants of the living room stared at both of them.

Austria saw that Germany was pale - too pale, and visibly sweating, while his eyes were foggy.

Spain saw that his gun holster was empty, which even Spain could tell was extremely unlike him.

Hungary saw that he seemed very agitated with his left arm; he kept moving it, shifting it from one position to another as if it hurt him, and rubbing it like there was an irritation in the skin. Some trick of the light almost made it seem like that arm was... glowing? She leaned in to take a closer look, and Germany turned a little to focus more fully on Prussia's face, hiding it from her view.

Romano shook his head suddenly. He pressed his hand to his temple. There was a presence at the edge of his consciousness, buzzing faintly like a dying bumblebee fading out from exhaustion. This wasn't right - there shouldn't be anyone there but his sister. Who was intruding on their sacred brotherly space? What was this?! _Who the hell are you?!_

Germany shook his head a little. "I... I don't know..." he answered out loud.

Prussia's concern increased. He waved his hand in front of Germany's face again, and seeing no repsonse at all, he grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, hard. "Bruder!" he repeated urgently.

Germany's gaze shifted from him and he looked, bewildered, around the room, trying to figure out who was shaking him. Prussia began to show serious concern. He shook him again. "Bruder! _Bruder! _Bruder, can you hear me at all?!"

Germany squeezed his eyes shut and opened them again as his shoulder socket and the very edge of his collarbone began to tingle and ache, bringing the painful light and alien thoughts one inch closer to his heart. His body was reacting, even if his brain was not; he felt sick and clammy, sweaty, nauseous and in pain, all signs that his body was screaming at him to wake up and fight off this alien invasion that no immune system could do anything about. He began to twist in his brother's grasp, looking thoroughly agitated. "Please..." he muttered, "please let me go... I don't know... I don't know who you are..."

Prussia panicked and slapped him.

"WAKE UP!" the Prussian shouted, shaking him savagely and slapping him again. "BRUDER! LOOK AT ME! GODDAMNIT, LOOK AT ME!"

Felicia rushed in from the kitchen, hurriedly setting the coffee down. Austria, his eyes trained worriedly on Prussia, picked up his coffee and sipped at it, determined not to lose his cool again. Romano began slapping the air around him, convinced that he could knock out the invisible enemy in his sacred space.

Felicia pushed aside the nagging feeling that there was something in her mind that shouldn't be and grabbed Prussia, pulling him away from the increasingly upset Germany. The albino former nation pulled easily out of her grasp (Italy was still Italy, and she hadn't exactly done any bodybuilding since she'd been gone) and grabbed his brother again, ready to punch his lights out if that meant there would be something, _anything,_ to let him know that his little brother still knew who he was.

Hungary grabbed his fist before he could knock out his own brother. He pushed her aside, and she held him round the middle and dragged him away, signalling to Felicia to grab Germany.

Felicia gently eased her friend into a chair with Austria's help and handed him a coffee. He took it confusedly with his undamaged arm and very nearly spilled it in his lap.

Austria took his other arm while Felicia steadied his coffee - and yelped as it burned, pulling his hand away in the nick of time. "What on earth -" He took a closer look, and his jaw dropped in uncharacteristic shock. "What..." he stammered, pointing helplessly as he backed away, nearly coming into the reach of Prussia's flailing arms, "...what is that?"

Felicia stopped to look.

She lunged forward and grabbed Germany's arm. Austria instinctively reached out to stop her, but no burns appeared on her hands. Golden threads curled around her wrists, spinning lazily as if welcoming themselves home. She ran her fingers along the weakly glowing limb and felt its burning heat, its strange heaviness, and the swelling around the shoulder.

Panicking, she ripped open her friend's shirt and saw the glowing threads carving their way into his chest, wrapping around his side and turning the skin pink, then irritated-red, then bluish pale and segueing into a sickly greenish-grey, all shot through with green and gold.

She looked into his eyes and remembered suddenly the touch on her shoulder, clinging on as if desperate to hold her even as her brother's connection sparked between them - burning him. He had been burned by their connection, and he hadn't said anything - anything at all. He'd let himself get like this - like what? What was this? And what would happen next?

In true Italian fashion, she turned to the nearest loved one, looking for solace, incentive, connection, help. Romano's eye was caught. The paleness of her face made his stomach drop, and he rushed over. His sister held out the arm of her closest friend and his newest. He frowned and took hold of it.

The words out of his mouth were, "Holy Mary, full of grace..."

* * *

**So there's that. Makes up for the wait? Yes? No? Maybe so? Hope you enjoy it! Stuff is getting interesting here, but we're not actually near the end. We still don't even know how Holy Rome got back to earth! That will have to wait until the next chapter... :)**


	17. Chapter 17

**I KNOW! I'M BACK! Hugs to you all!**

**Eeee! Here we go! Now things are picking up! This may seem unrelated, but... well, you'll get it soon enough.**

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_Over a thousand years earlier_

A small child crawled coughing out of the volcano. He pulled himself with weak, pale arms through a slowly cooling lava flow, which didn't seem to burn him. He was tiny, with wrinkled bluish skin, and naked except for charcoal and ash dusted all over him. Sluggish, thick bloodred lava moved around him, gently pressing him to keep crawling, lapping up against his naked back and seeming to whisper with patient urgency: _Hurry, child. There is much further to go._

He looked around, and the darkness of the night was impenetrable by his small blue eyes, so used to the fiery brightness of the lava from which he'd crawled. So he looked back down at his tiny, blue-veined, pudgy childish hands, gripping ropy streams of lava, and pulled himself on further through the flow.

Another boy, this one older - he looked to be almost a teenager, but still definitely a child - walked along the beach, looking up at the bright streams of lava on the mountain above, thinking about old stories his brothers told him.

There was a night a lot like this one, centuries ago, when he himself had crawled out of one of those lava flows, bewildered, naked, cold and afraid, not knowing his own name or how to see or speak.

But his brothers had taken him in. They had given him clothes, told him stories, taught him how to live in the cold without the constant guidance of Mama Hekla.

And there were nights like this one, hundreds or thousands of years before that one, when his brothers, warriors and wise men all, had crawled out of her fiery arms and learned to live with each other, as the family born from Hell.

Strangers sometimes came from the south, to trade. They were afraid of Mama Hekla, of her heights and her smoking crown and many gaping, steaming mouths. They were afraid of the fire she spat out when she was angry.

But mostly they were afraid because everyone knew that her stomach was Hell.

The whole world was aware that if you crawled down her throat and let her swallow you, eventually you would see the screaming, tortured souls of the damned. You could hear them from the beach sometimes, howling from deep inside Mama Hekla, when she chose to open one or two of her mouths extra wide.

They called her the "gates of Hell," and were suspicious of the people who lived around her and sometimes on her. His brothers made him keep quiet about the truth: that their whole family had been born from her. Whether they were damned souls who had been spat back up and allowed a second chance, or if they had somehow been created from her womb, they didn't know.

But if the traders from the south - England, he had heard the southern land called - found out that they were born directly out of Hell, they would never trade with them again. They were superstitious people, and talked a lot about demons and black magic.

One of his brothers, Norway, talked with the Englishmen a lot, discussing stories of demons and fairies. He was the reclusive one in the family, and he always wanted to question Mama Hekla and how she had given birth to so many young nations, instead of just accepting her grace.

The boy heard a small cry, as if from a child, from above him. He shaded his eyes from Mama Hekla's fiery flows and squinted up at the volcano's slopes.

Something was moving up there, squirming within one of the lava flows. He could hear a child crying.

The boy's heart thudded. He raced up the slopes, running easily through the lava flows, none of which harmed him. He stopped and stared in wonder and amazement - because there, kneeling in the lava, was a tiny boy. He was practically the size of the little bird that the older boy carried perched on his shoulder. His skin was as pale as the fish in the water, his hair was a light yellow, and his eyes were small and a hard pebble-blue.

"Hello," said the older boy breathlessly. The younger one turned his head in surprise at the sound, searching the in the darkness, but unable to see anything not illuminated by the lava.

The older boy squatted and waved a hand; the younger one was able to track the movement, though unable to detect the person moving. "I'm Iceland," he introduced himself. "Would you like something to eat?"

The baby nodded. "Ahh," he vocalized clumsily, and pointed to his mouth.

Iceland grinned happily. He stood up and waded through the lava, which parted reluctantly for him, grabbing the baby under the arms and lifting him up, out of the lava flow.

The boy began shivering right away, but Iceland wrapped him in a cloak and held him tight. He was up to his knees in lava, and it had already burned his clothes away, leaving him in impromptu shorts, but he was prepared for the cold. Excitedly he headed down the mountain to tell his brothers about the newest addition to their family.

"Don't you worry," he whispered to his littlest brother as he ran. "You're going to be great. I'm going to name you after Rome. Only better! I'm going to call you _Holy _Rome."

* * *

**Hey everybody! I'm back from a month away, and writing again! Did you miss me? How are you all? Anything interesting happening in your lives? Tell me! I love you all~**

**This little chapter might seem a little confusing, maybe even disappointing, but don't worry - this is the beginning of starting to unravel everything that has happened to our poor little Holy Rome - starting, as you've just seen, with his birth. I bet none of you were expecting to see the Nordics make an appearance, huh? :) **

**But here we are! Almost all of the characters are in place now. All that needs to happen is for some stuff to happen to Germany, some other European nations to show up to help Italy, one or two more appearances by the demons, and at least one epic showdown - in which the antagonist(s) is/are not going to be who you're expecting. We're getting close to the finish line here, so I just want to say a huge "thank you" to you all for following and enjoying my story!**

**See you next time! Xxoo**


	18. Chapter 18

_Hundreds of years later_

Holy Rome's body was never found.

His lonely, pale, pitifully small corpse, pitted with wounds, lying broken on the battlefields of Europe, was said to have turned to ash and melted down into the earth. But only one man saw it, and he would never tell. That would mean admitting that he'd murdered the child, knowing full well that his young cousin was waiting desperately for him to return. And besides, who would believe him?

So France kept quiet. But sometimes he still woke up at night, remembering in a cold sweat standing over him, feeling cold and sick, desperately searching for some other way he could have curbed the child's hunger for conquest and battle at the same time as he tried to justify what he'd done. The earth had shivered under his quiet body, groaned, turned as if being plowed from below, and as the dark brown-red seeped into the dirt, there was a sound of grief-stricken howling, like someone was mourning the boy from deep under the earth.

He'd watched in horror, hands over his mouth, weapon dropped and forgotten, as the little body flaked like soft stone, crumbling bit by bit, melting into black ash, until there was only a little pile of it, which was quickly swallowed by the ground. The howling stopped just as suddenly as it had started, and it was over.

He had taken it as a warning: the possible price of a thousand lives did not outweigh the price of one child's death. There had to have been some other way to stop the war, and he had chosen to murder the Holy Roman Empire. He never said a word, but he'd learned something.

So many people mourned Holy Rome. He had conquered, massacred and pillaged, but he had also won so many hearts.

Austria cried for him - privately, of course.

Hungary wept and grieved and remembered him with rose-colored lenses, like people tend to do for the dead.

Prussia had never sobbed so hard or mourned so long. He'd been all in black for almost a century, crying over the little boy he'd called his brother. He later pretended it had never happened. He pretended to be over it. Pretending things were better than they were was always one of his strengths.

Even Germany mourned him a little, in a way. He knew, growing up, that asking Prussia about the third brother no one ever told him the name of would erase the grin from his face and make him silent and closed off.

Spain never met him in person, but he heard about Italy's grief and made the decision he'd questioned ever since - to keep it from Romano. He could never quite justify it as protecting his charge. Romano had only found out centuries later, when it was too late to protect or comfort his brother, and he never realized that Spain had known all along.

Iceland cried for the little brother, a fellow Hell-born, whom he'd found all those years ago. The other Nordics comforted him, but he still remembered.

Germania looked down from heaven, remembering when he, too, had been born from Mama Hell, and mourned the failure of the boy to attain redemption. He never expected to see Holy Rome again.

Italy felt her soul drop out beneath her the day she knew for sure. Miss Hungary didn't have to tell her. She knew the moment he was dead. She could feel the sky mourn and the ground howl with delight. Nothing could ever give him back to her, not even death. Unless she chose him over everything else she believed in and everyone else she loved, and chose to follow him, they weren't going to the same place.

She could have chosen him. She could have started a war over his death, massacred, pillaged, conquered, made herself greater than her grandfather ever was, bloodied her hands until she could be with him. She could have chosen to be stronger, to be feared rather than loved.

Instead she chose to be wiser. She chose her family and her future. She chose to forgive France, despite all the rage that boiled and burned in her.

And until he showed up in her kitchen, as young as the day she lost him except for the marks of Hell upon him, she never once regretted it.


End file.
